


it's the little things

by badskeletonpuns



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: F/F, No Smut, maxlace, the great improbable porn battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:46:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6709195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskeletonpuns/pseuds/badskeletonpuns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My fill for type_here's prompt to me in the Great Improbable Porn Battle: "What do you think you're doing?" with Lovelace and Maxwell. Featuring non-linear storytelling, Isabel-sicles, and being not that sort of a doctor. Rated a high T for mention of sex acts and heavily implied sex, but nothing explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's the little things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [type_here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/type_here/gifts).



> The theme for this fic is Foreigner's God, by Hozier. Listen for added atmosphere: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7TAhi8Q3ec

Some stories aren't meant to be told linearly. 

 

For instance, I'm going to start this one by telling you that I just had sex with a woman who would probably kill me without a second thought. The important parts of this story are not the linear facts of how we got from point A to point B to point L for lesbians.

 

The important parts of this story are as follows.

 

The feeling of seeing a bridled mustang, seemingly under control but with panic in its eyes. Maxwell’s sense of humor, which is surprisingly similar to mine. The way her eyes looked, sharp and steady in the muted glow of the simulated nighttime on the Urania. The foreign feeling of her sheets, cool against my bare skin. 

 

I don't believe in anything anymore, but I will tell you without hesitation that Doctor Alana Maxwell is the goddess of her own reality. Her body is the temple where she is praised, lit by neon lights and strung with lines of code. Her programmed worshippers sing hymns of computerized chimes and electric hums. 

 

But enough sappy poetry. 

 

I'm probably going to die here, lying sated in Maxwell’s bed. It's far more comfortable than any bunk on the Hephaestus, so it wouldn’t be a bad place to die in. She left immediately after we finished - citing a project that simply couldn't wait for her oversight. 

 

She's probably going to go giggle to Jacobi about how we hooked up, the perv. Going to lord it over him how she's having sex, but Kepler has apparently made him sleep in his own bunk ever since Kepler heard that he made fun of the whiskey speech. 

 

It's the little things that really matter. 

 

Speaking of the little things, I didn't mind the chill in here when Maxwell’s body was hot along mine, but now it's really freaking cold. 

 

We kicked the blanket off at some point, so it's probably on the floor somewhere… No, wait, Maxwell used it to clean herself off. Not the most sanitary of choices for me now.

 

I get up off the bed and go hunting for some sort of temperature control. I don't think Hera really has control or visuals here - thank god, I did not need her to see Maxwell or me go down on each other. 

 

But that does mean I have to find out how to raise the temperature in Maxwell’s quarters a few degrees above Isabel-sicle temperatures through trial and error, rather than just asking the eye in the sky to do it for me. 

 

Also, it's too dark to find my clothes. Some of them might actually be in the hallway outside?

 

The Urania has fairly realistic artificial gravity, and the metal beneath my feet is slightly textured and even colder than the air around me.

 

I stumble to the wall unfortunately without running into my clothes (I did, however, trip over some sort of server, and my right shin will never be the same). I'm trying to feel my way to a light switch or temperature control panel of some sort when I hear the door a few feet away slide open, and I freeze.

 

For the love of all that is holy, please don't let Maxwell have brought Jacobi back with her. I will not be able to stop myself from decking him if he sees me naked, and I really don’t feel like getting blown up right now.

 

I turn slowly, sighing a little in relief when I see no one but her. 

 

“Isabel, what do you think you're doing?” she asks me, grinning in that indefeatable way of hers. I get the feeling no one has ever been able to challenge her at what she does best, and that confidence just spills over into all other aspects of her life. 

 

It's pretty damn hot. 

 

Unable to resist, I lean back against the wall, crossing my arms under my chest. She's definitely looking at me. “Gee, I don't know, Doctor Maxwell,” I say, casual as I can be when she could probably shoot me out the nearest airlock without regretting it. “See, I've been feeling a little under the weather lately, really feeling the chill - and I think I might need a checkup from a good doctor such as yourself. A long and thorough checkup.”

 

Her eyes drag over me, slow like honey dripping down a spoon, and her voice is husky when she replies. “I'm really not that sort of doctor, Isabel,” she says, and then her grin spreads into a slow smile that makes sets something inside me on fire. She bites her lip, and takes her time making her way over to me. “But I think I can give it a good try.” 

 

See, I haven't had much luck trying to follow the laws of linear storytelling in my past. 

 

And let me tell you, those laws don't matter at all when Maxwell has her teeth set against my skin and I'm whispering her name like a prayer to a foreign god, a blasphemy and a blessing in the same breath. 

 

She thinks she's going to kill me someday, but I know I’m going to kill her first.


End file.
